


The Hungry Ghosts

by Joules Mer (joulesmer)



Series: The Final Re-Write [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Sherlock (TV) Season/Series 04 Fix-it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-01-29 12:35:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12631197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joulesmer/pseuds/Joules%20Mer
Summary: A sequel to Deep Water, where Eurus had other plans for Mycroft, John and Sherlock after the death of the governor. A different ordeal played out in Sherrinford, followed by a very different homecoming.  Now, the world has changed for the better, but some ghosts remain.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I hadn’t intended to write a sequel, but I also hadn’t anticipated the kind reaction to Deep Water. Thank you.

It was late, well after midnight. Rosie had been asleep for upstairs for hours and the whole building was still. John stretched and rolled over, sleep still elusive despite the late hour.

“I love you.” Sherlock’s voice, somewhere in the darkness behind John.

John sighed, appreciatively, and it took him a full ten seconds to remember that Sherlock wasn’t there at all. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. Could the detective have come back?

Slowly, slowly, he rolled over: the other side of the bed was empty. Pulling the duvet more tightly around himself, John told himself to go back to sleep.

“I don’t want to die.”

John flung a hand out and snapped the light on. Sherlock was leaning against the wall by the closet wearing a rumpled suit. There was a scab on his split lip and one eye was bruised and bloodshot where John had hit him.

Sternly, John told the apparition, “You’re not real.” Sherlock just gazed back at him mournfully. “Go away.” He blinked and the other man vanished.

Turning off the light, John tried to get his thoughts in order even as he was painfully aware his hands were shaking. This hadn’t happened in months; and it had only started right after Sherrinford. He’d thought he’d banished the phantom Sherlocks when he moved back to Baker Street. When, _I love you,_ became something they actually said to each other aloud. Sherlock would be back the next morning-- the stake out with Lestrade was to be one night only. As the clock changed to 1am, John fell into an uneasy sleep.

When Sherlock arrived home in the morning, exhausted yet exhilarated from the thrill of the chase, _Got him, John! It was brilliant: he tried to set up the body the same as the others and we were right there,_ he didn’t comment on how tightly John hugged him. After two cups of tea and a piece of toast the detective wobbled on his feet so John took Rosie downstairs to Mrs. Hudson before leading the way to their bedroom. As the adrenaline wore off completely Sherlock managed to remove his shoes, but nothing else, not even his belt, before pitching forward into bed. After his interrupted night John simply climbed in after him, fully dressed as well, and enjoyed the sensation of holding the other man’s firm body until he drifted off to sleep. By the time Mrs. Hudson came upstairs with Rosie to make lunch, the previous night seemed like a dream.

**************************

Once again, Rosie was in bed and the flat was quiet. The firelight was a soft glow in the front room, augmented by a single lamp as John read his book. There was a quick arpeggio that he ignored, then a discordant series of notes that he pointedly ignored, then the opening notes of Eurus’ song which he could not ignore. Lowering his book he found Sherlock standing by the window, violin in hand and a familiar impatient look on his face. 

“I don’t know how you can sit around reading that drivel.”

John looked down at the novel in his hands, then back at the detective, defensively, “It’s on the bestseller list, Sherlock. It’s really rather good.”

“Bo-ring!” Sherlock whipped the violin back up under his chin and hacked out a series of notes before lowering it again, “A case, John! I need a case. Text Lestrade and see if he has anything for us. He’s more likely to answer you after that,” Sherlock waved the bow in the air, “thing with the witness last week.”

God, thought John, even my imaginary Sherlocks have imaginary cases.

“Will you two be quiet?” In his peripheral vision John saw a Sherlock appear curled up on the sofa. “Can’t an addict enjoy a fix in peace?”

Please, no… John didn’t even manage to finished the thought before there was a soft voice from Sherlock’s chair, “I don’t want to die.” The seated Sherlock blinked and a bloody tear rolled down his cheek as he repeated, “I don’t want to die.”

John leaned over the abandoned book on his lap and hissed at the Sherlocks, “You. Are. Not real.”

Sherlock with the violin snorted, “And yet you’re talking to us. Obviously we’re real enough for you.”

Sherlock, the real Sherlock, was gone for a long weekend of legwork in return for some debt to Mycroft he hadn’t elaborated on. It was only Friday and already John had three Sherlocks in the front room with him: this was the worst yet. It only seemed to happen when the real Sherlock was away, but until that evening it had only been brief apparitions or voices in the dark. Up until that point, Sherlock had never been away for so long.

John tried again, more firmly than before, “Go away!”

Sherlock with the violin blinked, “You don’t mean that. The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins. You live for this, John Watson.” He smiled, almost cruelly, and reminded John, “I went away and you didn’t like it at all.”

“Do you want my list?” The Sherlock on the couch uncurled slightly to regard John in confusion-- the command had only dully permeated his awareness. “Mycroft always wants to see the list.”

Sherlock in the chair drew his knees up to his chest, hugging himself, “I’m scared.” Another bloody tear rolled down the side of his nose.

John covered his face with his hands, counting to ten, slowly. When he lowered them again the flat was empty. Relieved, he hurried to get ready for bed himself before they could reappear.

The next morning he kept himself busy: taking Rosie to the park, briskly running errands, cleaning the flat. Anything that could keep the Sherlocks from appearing. They seemed to come most frequently in the silent moments, so he endeavoured to fill his day with noise and activity. That evening, as he was giving Rosie her bath (and getting equally wet himself as she splashed), he sensed something in his peripheral vision.

It was the addict Sherlock, greasy curls ringing his face as he sat on the floor just outside the bathroom door.

John ignored him in favour of upending a container of water to rinse the baby shampoo out of Rosie’s hair. She squalled and splashed back, but it was more playful than affronted so he did it again and she giggled. The water was cooling so he swept her up into a warm towel, stepping over the Sherlock’s legs as he carried her into the hall and up to her bedroom. 

John stayed upstairs until she fell asleep, then watched her eyelids flutter in the dim light as she breathed. Eventually, he ventured back downstairs. The addict Sherlock seemed to have fallen asleep on the floor outside the bathroom, a thin blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

The beaten Sherlock was there as well, hunkered in the armchair by the fireplace. John ignored him as he made a cup of tea, laid a fire, and picked up his book from the night before. He lost himself in the book for a while, finding he could enjoy himself despite the unwanted company. He was vaguely aware of Sherlock unfolding in the chair, sliding his feet across the rug toward John’s chair in a familiar gesture.

Without thinking of it, John slid his own feet forward as well. For a fraction of a second he swore he felt a familiar touching of ankles before Sherlock vanished. Embarrassed at himself, and his neediness, John closed his book and stomped off to bed.

Rolled protectively in the duvet, John lay in the dark, listening and counting the beats of his own heart. Just as he was falling asleep he heard it, softly, from the doorway, “I love you.”

The next morning, as he was feeding Rosie her breakfast, there were heavy footsteps on the stairs and a polite tapping on the front door before it was opened anyway. The Sherlocks did not react. They had all been there when John woke up in the morning: by the window, on the sofa, and in the chair. Mycroft let himself in and came to stand on the threshold between the front room and the kitchen. “Good morning.” His eyes flicked as he took in the layout of the flat and the angle of John’s chair.

Rosie offered a gnawed piece of toast and John smiled. “Morning, Mycroft. Tea?” The water was still hot on the stove and there was a spare mug on the counter.

“Tricky things, mind palaces.” Mycroft flicked his umbrella into the air and inspected the tip even as he continued speaking, “You create them because you want them there… but sometimes memories can take on a life of their own.”

Carefully, keeping his tone even and attempting to betray nothing, John asked, “Did you want something, Mycroft?”

“Sherlock won’t be back until Monday evening-- thought I’d check whether you’re coming for dinner tonight.” A Sunday meal had become something of a tradition since Sherrinford, barring days when work or cases prevented it.

“You could have rang.”

“I was in the neighbourhood,” Mycroft shrugged, “so to speak.”

Without even looking, John was aware of the Sherlock by the window staring inquisitively at him. “Yeah, we’d love to come.”

Mycroft nodded, satisfied, “Best be off then. Until this evening.”

“Ta, Mycroft.”

The receding footsteps paused just inside the front door and Mycroft’s voice came drifting back to the kitchen, “Beware the hungry ghosts, John. They can consume you in the end.”


	2. Chapter 2

The Sherlocks stayed all morning and afternoon. They had started following John as he went about his day: appearing in alleyways and shop fronts as he ran errands, hovering in the corner of Rosie’s room as he read her a story, slinking down the stairs after him to Mrs. Hudson’s. By the late afternoon he was desperate to escape the flat and their constant gaze. There had been no contact from the real Sherlock, but John had been warned to expect that. Whatever deep cover Mycroft had sent him to prevented the use of a mobile, or any form of contact whatsoever.

Mycroft’s front door was as stuffy and grand as the rest of his house. When the door opened John clutched Rosie more tightly to his side and without thinking, blurted, “Am I insane?”

A wry smile twisted Mycroft’s features, a gesture that John had seen before when the man was proved right about something he’d suspected. “No more than my brother, although that, I suppose, is debatable.” He held the door open more widely, “Come in, and we can discuss.”

“Hullo, John.” It was Molly Hooper, standing nervously just inside the door. Rosie squealed in delight at the sight of her and was quickly transferred over. “I’ll see you in the morning, then.”

“Wait,” John looked between the two of them, “What?”

Molly’s smile was a bit pinched, she’d obviously heard his words on the doorstep. “Mycroft asked if I could take Rosie this evening. He said you have some business to discuss?”

Oh. John glanced at Mycroft, who had a bland look on his face. Right then. “Oh, yes, thank you, Molly. That was very _thoughtful_ of Mycroft. I hadn’t realized.”

Relieving John of the diaper bag as well, Molly gave him a peck on the cheek and then hurried from the house and into a waiting car without a backwards glance.

“How…”

Mycroft held up a forestalling hand, “Dinner, first, I think.”

John let himself be led to a small dining room off the kitchen, where a large meal was waiting for them both. The food was good, and the wine was excellent. Mycroft kept up a careful conversation: Rosie, their last case, even football, which John had no idea Mycroft followed. Perhaps it was Mycroft’s job to follow everything, just in case. 

When the meal was finished, Mycroft stood, without preamble or explanation, and simply led the way into the drawing room, John trailing behind. He poured them both a glass of scotch and waved John into an armchair by the ornate fireplace.

John took a sip of his drink, oh it was good, and looked up to find Mycroft watching him intently. The elder Holmes had a way of looking right through people. John was suddenly unnerved to find it turned on himself. It hadn’t bothered him that much before, not even the first time in an empty warehouse, but today those pale blue eyes seemed to pierce right through him. The ice-man indeed.

Eventually, Mycroft broke the silence, “How long?”

There was no question what he was asking. “Since Sherrinford.” John swirled the scotch in his glass. “I thought it had stopped when we moved in together, but now when Sherlock is away…”

Mycroft hadn’t moved, all energy focused on his scrutiny of the other man. “How many?”

Many? How could he tell? John swallowed, convulsively, this was rapidly getting too personal, even for _family_. “Mycroft, I don’t think…”

“No, you didn’t, did you?” There was no venom in the way Mycroft cut him off, but no room for evasion either, “How many?”

Humiliated, as if there being more than one Sherlock made it somehow worse, John admitted, “Three.”

“The same?”

“Yes.” John shrugged, “Not always all at once, but the same three.” Mycroft hummed low in his throat, a note of interest as he thought. Gathering his courage, John asked, “You referred to them as ‘hungry ghosts’. Why?”

“Ah, yes, a fascinating concept: born of tragedy, or selfishness, and driven by an insatiable hunger for a particular substance or object.” He leaned forwards, an elbow planted on the arm of his chair. “Forget the crossroads at midnight, John: we can create them ourselves, and leave them hiding in the recesses of our own minds. Intense emotional needs made animalistic by the strength of their desire, and inability to find sustenance.”

“And you think…”

Mycroft interrupted, correcting him, “I know.”

John only accepted a partial correction, “And you _think_ you know what I’m dealing with?”

“Only you know your own burden, John, but I have seen something like this before.”

“When?”

Mycroft’s smile was more of a bearing of teeth. “Before.” There was a settee on the other side of the room and he indicated it with his glass, “Lie down.”

“Why?” John’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Do I need to? You haven’t drugged me, have you?”

Mycroft shrugged, “More, you think you need to. Stereotypes of the psychoanalyst’s couch run deep.” More gently, and with something approaching a real smile, he repeated, “Lie down.”

Grudgingly, yet desperate, John set down his glass, slipped off his shoes, and padded over to the settee. He settled on his back and observed the wood panelling on Mycroft’s ceiling.

“Good.” Mycroft hadn’t left his chair. “Now: let them come.”

Even with his gaze fixed on the ceiling, John could tell when they arrived. There was the sound of another person breathing, faintly, as if it hurt to draw air through his nose. A faint twang of a string being plucked on a violin. A rustle from near the floor on the other side of the room. “They’re here, Mycroft.” John’s voice sounded strange even to his own ears. “All of them.”

“Good. Now: tell me about the first.”

The first? John settled on the most overt presence, “It’s Sherlock with his violin. When _the game is on_. He wants me to work on a case with him.”

“And the next?”

“It’s Sherlock when he’s high.” There was a faint rustle from Mycroft’s chair at that. “When he looks like he’s just come out of a drugs den and could be on the verge of an overdose. He’s filthy and ill and doesn’t care at all.”

There was a longer pause, perhaps Mycroft needed to gather himself as well. “And the third.”

“It’s Sherlock…” John had to make his hand into a fist, then relax it again, to be able to admit, “After I beat him. In the mortuary with Culverton Smith.”

It was Mycroft’s turn to take a breath that was ever so shaky as he murmured, “Hungry ghosts indeed.” He cleared his throat, softly, before asking, “What do they want?”

“I don’t think they want anything.” They hadn’t asked him for anything, had they? “I guess the first Sherlock wants a case. The second… he just needs a fix. The third…” The third was the hardest to talk about. The third Sherlock made guilt come crawling up his neck and threaten to choke him. John forced himself to speak past the sudden lump in his throat. “The third tells me he doesn’t want to die. That he’s scared of dying. It’s Sherlock’s words from the recording at the hospital.”

Mycroft waited, somehow aware John was withholding a detail.

After another twang from the violin, a rustle of blanket, and a few more pained breaths from across the room, John admitted, “The third Sherlock told me he loved me.” He licked his lips and continued, “It was right after Sherrinford. Before I’d really figured things out.”

Mycroft considered the information for a while. Long enough that John wondered if he knew what to do next. Eventually, Mycroft said, “Sherlock had Jim Moriarty in his mind palace. Straightjacketed. In chains. Locked deep beneath the cellar. A dungeon for the monster.”

“Jesus.” John couldn’t imagine. Why? For how long?

Sensing the questions, Mycroft continued, “Moriarty wanted Sherlock to die, painfully, yes, but really to finally lose the game. The knowledge consumed my brother, because after everything he did while he was away, Sherlock still feared that somehow he couldn’t keep you safe.”

Chancing a glance to the side revealed that all three Sherlocks were watching Mycroft. John looked to the other man as well, and asked, “What happened?”

Mycroft frowned. “My brother was not going to give him that satisfaction.” He contemplated his drink for a moment, then continued, “The night Sherlock was shot, as his heart was failing, he was flung into those recesses of his mind palace. He was dying, and he was trapped in the dungeons of his mind palace with Moriarty.”

John felt ill. Deep and viscerally ill.

Mycroft paused to take a quick gulp of his drink, as if purifying his memory with the burn of the alcohol. “He was dying there, taunted by Moriarty. Pain, heartbreak, loss, death. It was all there, all at once. Instead, he gathered up every ounce of concern for you, and lived. And when he lived and finally believed that you and Mary were safe, Moriarty disappeared. He shot Magnussen, saved you, and banished the monster.”

How could Mycroft know that, while John did not? There was a something clenching painfully in his chest. “He told you that?”

“Mmmm. I might have had a hand on the controls for his morphine pump at the time.”

John resolved to never let Mycroft near him in hospital.

Mycroft swirled his drink again and added, “When my brother took that overdose before the flight east it was half a goodbye party.”

“So this is some kind of… unfinished business.” The absurdity of the situation caught up with John and he snorted: lying on Mycroft Holmes’ settee moaning about ghosts and unfinished business as if the man was some kind of cartoon therapist. He was about to get up-- to tell Mycroft to forget it and just get him a car back to Baker Street.

“There is a reciprocity here, John, that perhaps you have not apprehended. Moriarty could cling to Sherlock’s mind palace because the game was not over. Not so long as there was still a chance for Sherlock to fall. Sherlock, in turn, kept Moriarty locked away, no matter how painful it was to do so, because if a threat were to surface that shade could have value. So long as Moriarty was so animated, the memory could probed for details that had been ignored as insignificant before. Thus, the hungry ghost: craving something from Sherlock that just about consumed my brother, yet, in turn, Sherlock hadn’t let him go.”

Ridiculous, John decided. It was ridiculous. John had gone through a stressful patch, he missed Sherlock, and all he really needed was to ignore the Sherlocks and perhaps have a few sessions with Ella and it would all go away. He shifted to get up, but Mycroft continued.

“The Sherlocks you describe want _you_ , John. Just you.” The words made John stay in place. “Perhaps, you feel you let him down.”

The ceiling had never looked so appealing. John considered the three spectres: the first Sherlock, wanting his companionship for cases. Sherlock had saved him, truly, after Afghanistan. For a time, he’d have followed Sherlock to the ends of the earth. And then Moriarty, Magnussen, Mary… There had been times, many times, when John hadn’t been there at all. And not just that, but simply expected to come back when it was convenient for him. And Sherlock had always taken him back. No questions. No reservations. Even now, when Sherlock would hold him close late at night, it was unconditional.

The second Sherlock made John apprehensive every time he appeared. The addict. He carried the worst connotations of danger nights and neglect. A stench of decaying drugs dens and foetid sweat. Worst of all, Sherlock’s willingness to abuse himself for a case. His relentless need for stimulation. And, since they had met, a path he had only taken when John wasn’t there. That still meant there had been three occasions where his life could have been snuffed out. Just like that. Alone.

The third. There was a wetness welling in John’s eyes that blurred the panels on the ceiling into an indistinct smudge. _I don’t… I don’t want to die. I’m scared._ Something heavy had settled over the middle of John’s chest, threatening to smother him if it became any worse. _I’m... scared of dying_. John’s right hand twitched with the remembered pain of punching Sherlock as hard as he could. And not just punching: kicking him. Knocking him down and then kicking him when he was on the ground. _Let him do what he wants. He’s entitled. I killed his wife._

“Breathe, John.” Mycroft’s voice cut through the memories and John took a gasping breath. When had he stopped breathing? Jesus, he was having a panic attack on Mycroft Holmes’ settee. “Breathe,” came the command, again.

John focused on breathing and the sparks that had started dancing at the edge of his vision slowly receded. He was sweating; heart racing. 

“Let’s call that sufficient reflection for this evening.” Mycroft was still seated in his chair, but clearly monitoring carefully, even from across the room, “I’d rather not have to involve the emergency services.” 

Finally the jackhammer that felt like a dangerous tachycardia abated as well and John managed to gasp, “Jesus, Mycroft.”

“The guest bedroom is prepared. Whenever you’d like to go up.” Straightening his waistcoat as he rose, Mycroft abandoned his glass on a side table and left the room without another glance.

It was a minute before John trusted himself to be able to sit up without risking his vision greying out. He was disgusted to find himself covered in sweat as well: beading on his forehead and pooling damply under his arms. What a mess. He took another slow, steadying breath.

The Sherlocks were gone. John took another slow breath, then stood on legs that felt like he’d been running for hours. He kept a careful hand on the banister all the way up to the guest bedroom he’d occupied after Sherrinford. True to Mycroft’s word, the bedroom was prepared with a set of pyjamas in his size and a travel kit ready in the en suite. 

After a shower John was feeling so worn out he crawled into bed, even though it was barely past nine o’clock. As he switched off the light he remembered something Mycroft had said: _There is a reciprocity here, John, that perhaps you have not apprehended._


	3. Chapter 3

It was hours later, yet still hours before dawn: the moon had set and the guest bedroom was completely dark and quiet. John was curled on his side: not quite asleep, but not awake either. The bed was large and soft and it was easy to just float on the edge of consciousness. Somehow, in the darkness, he sensed the bedroom door behind him open. Mycroft? Or were the ghosts now able to create phantom air currents as well?

“Shhhh, it’s me.” Sherlock pulled back the covers and slipped in behind John, quickly reaching out to wrap a reassuring arm around his midsection. “It’s really me.”

Staring ahead into the darkness, John’s voice sounded diminished when he spoke, “I thought you weren’t coming home until tomorrow night?” 

John could sense a concerned half-smile in the tone of Sherlock’s voice, “Mycroft told me you needed help with a banishment.”

“Oh.”

Sherlock nuzzled the hair at the back of John’s neck as he whispered, “There’s nothing to forgive, John.”

And then, John understood. He squirmed free and spun around, unable to see Sherlock in the dark, but sensing his warmth and little puffs of breath on his cheek. “I beat you. I kicked you when you were down and I meant it.”

“I made you.” Sherlock countered, voice low and soft.

“I was so angry.” The memory of the emotion, and how he had lost control so completely, scared him. “They had to pull me off you, Sherlock. I left you alone in the hospital. I wasn’t coming back.”

Sherlock made a little noise of disagreement in his throat. “I had a plan.”

“You weren’t really strong enough to fight him off.” This was an unspoken truth John had been aware of the moment he’d broken down the hospital door. “You thought you would be, because you’d replaced the drugs, but you weren’t.”

“No.” There was a hitch and an uncertainty in Sherlock’s voice that John hated to hear. “It was a slight miscalculation.”

“You could have died.”

“You were going to come for me.”

“I almost didn’t. If I hadn’t found that recording of Mary. If Mrs. Hudson hadn’t showed us where to look...”

“But you did.” A warm and very real hand reached out and cupped the side of John’s face in the dark. “You always do.” There was another puff of breath then Sherlock’s thumb gently rubbed moisture from the corner of John’s eye.

“How can you count on me, Sherlock? After…” He didn’t even know where to start.

Sherlock hitched closer so that their foreheads were almost touching on the pillow as he said, “When we first met you moved in with me, followed me to a crime scene, told me I was _amazing_ , turned down a significant sum of money in exchange for spying on me, and shot a man to save my life. I wouldn’t call that misplaced trust.”

“You could have died,” John repeated, unable to forget the horrible gasp of near suffocation Sherlock had given when they’d pulled Culverton Smith away.

“I was scared.” Sherlock admitted, “It started out as acting, but when he was suffocating me, when he really meant it… He was stronger than I’d expected. I knew you’d come, but I couldn’t help wonder if maybe I’d got the timing wrong.” The rough pad of Sherlock’s thumb stroked over John’s cheekbone. “You didn’t tell Mycroft it had happened before.”

Mary. Because of course Sherlock knew about Mary.

“That was different.”

“She went away, though, once you told us what you’d done?” There was a hesitation in the question, and genuine curiosity.

They’d never talked about this. Not even after John and Rosie had moved into Baker Street. There was a sudden lump in John’s throat as he said, “She told me to get on with it.”

Sherlock gave a little snort, “This is hardly High Wycombe.”

“You have attempted to poison me though.” He was never going to let Sherlock off the hook for Baskerville. Not as long as he lived.

The eyeroll was palpable in the dark. “Only for a case.”

“Mycroft really called you back? Wasn’t this some top-secret big-deal deep cover job?”

There was bemusement in Sherlock’s voice as he said, “Shocking though it is to admit: he might not be a rubbish big brother after all. Not completely.”

This was so like them: swinging from the serious to the macabre to humour without the slightest pause. John suddenly needed to see the other man. To make sure that there really was a living, breathing person behind this voice in the dark. He squirmed backwards and reached up to switch on the nightstand light, blinking painfully even as Sherlock said, “Wait, John…”

There was a spectacular bruise over Sherlock’s left eye, and his lip was marred by a little spot of crusted blood where it had split. The breath left John’s chest as if he’d taken a punch to the solar plexus. He recoiled back against the headboard, even as Sherlock’s voice seemed to come from far away.

“John! John, it’s fine.” Sherlock lurched forward, hands tangling in the loose fabric at the shoulders of John’s pyjamas. “Sorry. Mycroft warned me; I didn’t think you’d turn on the light like that.”

A whooping breath, finally, made it in and he managed to choke out, “What?”

“It’s fine. _I’m_ fine. I’m real.” Sherlock gave John a little shake by the shoulders. “I’m here.”

John drew a shaky breath and observed the differences: the eye was bruised, but not bloodied. There was a faint scar at the edge of his eyebrow, not a wound needing a line of stitches. He took another, deeper, breath and managed, “You, cock.”

Sherlock had the grace to look chastened. “Sorry.”

“What happened?” John reached out, then pulled his hand back before he could touch the painful looking bruise.

“A minor miscalculation. I’m fine, really. Mycroft made me get checked out before he’d let me come in.”

“Thank goodness for meddlesome brothers. Let me see.” John took Sherlock’s chin gently in hand and angled his face towards the light. The bruising was from roughly the day before and there was a puffiness around the eye that was clearly uncomfortable. After some careful scrutiny, John was forced to agree, “It’ll be fine.” They regarded each other, almost warily, until John said, “I think I’m losing it, Sherlock.”

“You’re not.”

It was exasperating, Sherlock’s certainty. As the adrenaline wore off John was exhausted all over again. “How can you possibly sound so sure about that?”

“I’m always sure.”

“Even when you’re wrong. That doesn’t make it any better.”

“You’re not insane,” Sherlock repeated. “If you were, Mycroft would have you in a nice padded room at the Priory. The deluxe package with the monogrammed slippers.”

“Bit not good, Sherlock.” The detective was wearing a rumpled dress shirt and the trousers that matched his second-best suit jacket. He looked tired. Sore. “What happened to your face? If Mycroft sent you somewhere dangerous again so soon after Sherrinford I swear…”

Sherlock cut him off before the outrage could gather steam: “I slipped.”

It took John a moment to process the admission. “You slipped? You don’t slip.”

“Must have been off my game.” 

“Seriously, you slipped?”

There was a pause, then Sherlock admitted, “I was walking and texting. There must have been a patch of ice.”

“Hmmmm, yeah, must have.” Sherlock was looking anywhere but John’s face, so the doctor couldn’t resist adding, “Still prefer to text?”

Sherlock’s lip almost split again with how much he curled it to grate out, “Yes.” There was no venom, merely embarrassment at the failure in his transport.

John reached out, gently, and cupped a hand over the bruise, feeling the heat of Sherlock’s face as he did so. “You look dead on your feet.”

“Long days.” Sherlock conceded, leaning into the touch as he did so. “Case over though-- Mycroft can wrap it up without me.” Fingers clumsy with fatigue, he undid the buttons of his shirt, then shrugged it off without breaking contact with John’s hand. The trousers were going to be more challenging. Pulling away, Sherlock stripped off his outer clothes before crawling back into the bed. 

John switched off the light and settled on his back. There was a rustling of high threadcount sheets, then Sherlock came clambering over, all hard angles and gangling limbs until he settled pressed against John’s side and half over his chest. Almost too heavy, but a reassuring warmth and weight nonetheless.

Running his fingers over the faint scars on Sherlock’s shoulder, what the detective had reluctantly referred to as his souvenir from Serbia, John asked the question only fit for the dark: “Will I still see them when you’re gone?”

“I don’t think so. Not now.” Sherlock paused, considering, “But it’s _your_ mind palace. Do _you_ think you’ll see them again?”

Mycroft’s words, from earlier: _There is a reciprocity here, John_

And Sherlock’s whisper: _There is nothing to forgive._

And, worst of all, the admission of just how close he’d come to losing the other man.

When considered like that, there was only one conclusion: “I don’t think so.”

“Hmmmm.” Sherlock’s hum of approval was already drowsy.

John brought a hand up to tangle in the other man’s hair and was rewarded with an indistinct grumble of pleasure. He kept up a gentle stroking as the tension in Sherlock’s frame slowly eased, only stopping when there was a breath that was more a soft snore.

In the darkness outside the window a bird began to sing. A blackbird, he supposed, or a robin. He’d never been good with birdsong. Sherlock gave another snore and the bird trilled again. 

John considered the living, breathing weight on his chest and smiled.


End file.
